Neville Longbottom The Boy Who Lived
by andradite
Summary: Ever wondered what could have been if Harry wasn't the 'Chosen One'...well i did too, so here's the end result First FanFic...be gentle
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Night had descended on the quiet little street in Bedford's outer reaches, and with it came a deep blanket of silence. Now this silence was not the ordinary kind of silence, it was the kind of silence that could only be found in libraries, dentist waiting rooms, or this particular street. It was not merely the absence of noise, but a completeness of utter quiet.

Now this silence combined with the darkness of the night, could make for a very foreboding scene on this cool evening in early August, if it were not for the strange man who was walking serenely down it, humming _'God Save the Queen'_ as he did.

Now this man did not possess the common kind of strangeness that one could find in any eccentric billionaire or homeless person, no! The strangeness that radiated from this man was such a unique strangeness that only he possessed it. If any other person were to be so strange, they would immediately be admitted to a Psychological Rehabilitation Clinic, or looked at very as if he were a three toed, hairy octopus.

Now much of this man's strangeness was attributed simply, to the way he was dressed. In such a street as this was, a robe, gown or even a kilt on a man, would be odd, and possessing neither of the latter, this man, as he walked through the darkness in a deep purple robe, would be very odd indeed.

Now, along with his odd robe, this man's strangeness also continued to his face. As he continued to hum, the man's brilliant eyes bordered by comical half-moon glasses, sparkled with silent humour. Below these eyes, sat a nose, as bent and crooked, that to many it was as if he owned a rather peculiar beak, and under this nose was the start of the man's beard. And such a beard it was! Longer than any beard one would have ever seen. So long that it, in all of its silver, shimmering glory, reached the man's belly button, and thus was able to be tucked into his belt.

Who was this man, and what was his business in a street that looked down its pompous nose at such an appearance? Why, this man was Albus Dumbledore Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; and his business is his own, and he would thank you to keep your large nose out of it in the future!

Now, as Albus Dumbledore walked through the darkness, quietly humming to himself he was quite aware that he was being watched. So aware in fact, that it came as no surprise that as he reached Number 4, Parsley Drive, he found a cat perched sternly on the fence, giving him such a look that would make a grown giant cry.

'Well good evening Professor McGonagall!' Dumbledore said cheerfully, his eyes sparkling.

With one last look at the strange man, the cat turned on the spot and leapt into the darkness, only to return moments later, as an equally severe-looking woman. 'Good evening Headmaster.' The woman said stiffly. 'I assume that this is no merry little visit to Parsley Drive, and indeed, the rumours are true.' This was neither a question, nor a statement, yet the Headmaster understood perfectly.

'It is true Minerva, all of the rumours are true, except, perhaps about the purple elephant,' the headmaster replied, as he rummaged through his robe pockets, 'but even so, I am not able to make such an assumption without knowing all the facts. Sherbet Lemon?'

'I-…what?' The woman asked.

'Sherbet Lemon?' The man repeated, holding up a small yellow lolly. 'They are Muggle sweets that I have grown rather fond of…' He trailed off when he saw the icy look he was getting from his fellow Professor. 'Yes, well I suppose they wouldn't be your cup of tea.' He said, popping the lolly into his mouth.

'Albus? What of the rumours?' The woman persisted. 'It cannot be true? I mean…can it?'

The man sighed. 'I am afraid, Minerva, that they are true.' He took a deep breath. 'Lord Voldemort had fallen.' The woman gasped, and the man nodded gravely. 'However, it was at the expense of both the boy's parents', and almost his own, lives.'

Minerva McGonagall shook her head. 'It cannot be true! Frank and Alice dead? And poor Neville almost so? But how? How could he survive, surely if two of some our greatest Aurors could not stand up to Him, then how could their one-year-old son?'

Albus Dumbledore sighed, but said nothing. In the tree behind him, an owl hooted sadly and further up the street a dog howled, but the man still said nothing. Eventually, he spoke, but his words were of no comfort. 'I do not know Minerva, and perhaps we never shall. All we can do now is ensure of the boy's safety and let him leave this horrible mess behind him.'

Professor McGonnagall looked wildly from the man before her, to the house, they stood in the garden of, and back again. 'Surely you do not mean to leave him here?' She cried. 'What of his grandmother? His aunties? Other uncles? What of them?'

'Dead,' Dumbledore said softly, 'or missing. It was a family reunion; all of his family were in the same house, well all, that is, except him.' He said the last part of this as gazed up at the two-storey house before, within which dwelled the ones who owned the garden bed they were now trampling.

McGonnagall remained silent. She gazed down at the pansy she was standing on, remembering the two ex-students who were now dead, and their orphan son. 'Who is bringing him?' She asked suddenly.

Dumbledore smiled. 'Hagrid was most enthusiastic about the prospect; after all, he was dear friends with both Frank and Alice. I thought he should fetch him.'

Minerva gave the Headmaster a look consisting of fear mixed with anger, kindness and a little of her own personal sternness. 'Are you sure that it is…wise to give Rubeus such an important task. I do not doubt the kindness of his intentions, but he does have a tendency to be a little…well, overzealous.'

'I do not doubt that Rubeus will take the utmost care when dealing with the boy's safety.' Dumbledore said softly, yet with finality.

Unable to counter the enigmatic Headmaster, McGonnagall remained silent. For a full five minutes, the two remained so, with Minerva anxiously gazing through the darkness for Rubeus Hagrid, and Dumbledore rummaging through his pockets for more of his favoured sweets, until the silence was broken by a low, loud rumbling, coming from nowhere in particular.

Looking expectantly up and down the road, McGonnagall was confused when she was rewarded with no sight of the source of the noise. Looking to Dumbledore, she was confused to find him looking happily towards the sky. Raising her eyes to find the cause of his amusement, Minerva was shocked to see a single light making its way steadily across the night sky, towards them.

Slowly the light became larger, and as it did so, the terrible rumbling also increased until it was all that could be heard. Then suddenly, out of the darkness came an astonishing sight.

Atop of what could only be known as the biggest motorcycle in the northern hemisphere, was easily the largest man in the world. Draped in a massive, heavy-looking moleskin coat, the man stood at least a meter taller than any normal-sized man, and was at least double the width. His head was covered mostly by a beard that had the texture and appearance of several wire scrubbers matted together, and his hair was much the same. However from what little face that could be seen, one immediately got the impression, that this man was as soft as a teddy bear. Small, beetle-black eyes, with slight wrinkles in the corners beamed at the witch and wizard before him.

Supporting a tiny bundle in the crook of his left arm, Rubeus Hagrid dismounted the enormous bike and strode over to the two people in the garden bed of Number 4.

'Professors.' He said, nodding to each of them. 'Good te see ye. Wouldn't think tha' such a nice nigh' coul' be so terrible.'

'Did you retrieve him?' Dumbledore asked softly walking over to the beast of a man.

'Sure did, 'ere 'ee is. 'Ee fell asleep jus' as we were flyin over town.' Hagrid said, as he handed the tiny bundle over to Dumbledore.

Holding the little bundle gently in his arms, Dumbledore slowly pulled aside the baby-blue blankets to reveal the tiny, one-year-old face of Neville Longbottom.

Slightly rounded, the boys face was soft and smooth, except for a fresh gash on his forehead in the exact shape of a lightning bolt. McGonnagall and Hagrid looked on as Dumbledore examined the child, ensuring he was ok.

'Will he have that scar forever?' McGonnagall asked.

'I am afraid he will, Professor. I cannot do much about it, due to the power of the spell and wizard that caused it. Most unfortunately, Neville will remain forever a marked man.' Dumbledore replied quietly, finishing his examination.

Heading over to the front door of the house before them, Dumbledore reached into his pocket and retrieved a long, thin piece of smooth wood. Waving it swiftly, a small basket appeared on the doorstep, in which, the man placed the carefully wrapped child. Atop of the blankets the Headmaster also placed a sealed envelope, with curly purple writing on the front.

As Dumbledore got to his feet and straightened up, he heard a hoarse whimper behind him. Turning around, he found Hagrid gazing down at the basket with a tear in his eye.

'There there, Rubeus. You shall see him again soon enough, after all, he is a wizard, he shall return to our world when he is ready.'

Rubin nodded, and sniffed. 'I know.' He sniffed. 'Its jus'…his parents dead, him all alone. I can' stand it.'

Minerva McGonnagall sighed and placed her hand on the lower back of the giant man that being the highest place she could reach. Steering him away to the motorbike, she spoke comforting words to him. He then he got back onto the bike, kicked it to life, and with one last look, flew off into the night.

Minerva McGonnagall stood on the footpath watching the doorstep with the little shape still sitting on it, and she was soon joined by Dumbledore. Giving him one last look, the woman walked off into the darkness and in a moment, she was gone.

The strange old man now stood alone in the darkness surrounding Parsley Drive, gazing at the house before him. Slowly he too turned and walked off into the darkness, and just before he disappeared he whispered, 'Good luck Neville Longbottom. You shall return to us soon enough, and you shall be known as Neville the Boy-Who-Lived.' And with a _pop,_ the strange man was gone, leaving the street back to normal. Almost.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

**Maple Trees and Swings**

The house was silent, and that was just the way he liked it. No yelling, so screaming, just silence. It was odd for an eleven-year-old to enjoy silence to such an extent, but then again, this particular eleven-year-old was odd anyway.

Neville Longbottom lay in the silence of his basement bedroom staring at his favourite spot on the ceiling. A rather odd stain, in the curious shape of a motorcycle was all that Neville had to amuse himself during his long hours of silence.

He would imagine that he was on that motorcycle, flying away from this house, this street, this life. He would imagine that the bike belonged to someone who was far more interesting than he or the other occupant in this house. But that was as much as he could do. Imagine.

Suddenly the blissful silence was broken by a bellow that was only possible to be made by his dear housemate.

"NEVILLE, GET YOUR BONY BUTT UP HERE!" The voice called.

Despite the fact that the voice sounded very angry, Neville smiled. It was true that his butt was rather bony; hell that is all he was, skin and bones; but for someone such as the man who called to draw attention to it, was slightly amusing.

As he meandered up the stairs Neville retreated to the blissful sanctity of his imagination.

For some odd reason, he had always wondered what it would be like to be slightly rounder than he was. Everytime he stood before a mirror, Neville would look upon his slightly round, but rather gaunt face, and puff out his cheeks. It was odd, but he always liked the idea of him weighing more than the meagre 25 kilos he did now.

Finally he reached the door that lead to the rest of the house. Twisting the handle and pushing hard, Neville stepped out into the pristine cleanliness of the kitchen.

Adjusting his eyes to the blinding glare from the disinfected surfaces, Neville looked around. His eyes fell upon the figure sitting at the kitchen table with an enormous paper stretched out before him. Creeping closer to the table, Neville tried to catch a glimpse of the paper the man was reading. However, he could only make out a small section before it was hastily hidden by the man.

_The Daily Prop?_ Neville wondered. _What an odd name for a newspaper._

Pulling Neville out of his pondering the man before him growled. "What you thinkin' 'bout boy?"

Hastily, Neville shook himself out of his stupor and put on a doughy look. The man always seem to go easier on his when Neville played the fool. "Nothin' Uncle Albert."

Uncle Albert grunted and got to his feet. Towering at least a meter above the odd eleven-year-old, the man strode over to the fridge. Pulling a piece of paper out from under a magnet the man strode back and shoved it in Neville's hands.

Settling his thin frame back onto the chair Albert said, "That's the stuff I want ye' to do today. All of it, and no slackin'!"

Neville nodded and turned to the list. Although he could read the list perfectly, Neville screwed up his face and tried to look stupid. Obviously, he had a knack for acting, because in an instant his Uncle had ripped the paper from his hands and was reading it to him.

"You're as thick as two short bricks. It says you have to wash the car, mow the lawn, trim the hedges, weed the garden and paint the shed." Albert read, smiling. He always seemed to love the fact that he was smarter than his young nephew was, and who was Neville to tell him otherwise?

"Ohhh...ok." Neville said, with mock-dawning comprehension. He did not bother to tell his Uncle that the car _was _clean, the lawn was perfectly manicured, the hedge had not had a leaf out of place in years and the garden was void of any weeds, all that was left was the shed. But to tell him so would mean that Neville would not be able to spend and entire day barely doing a thing.

Turning on his heel, Neville hurriedly exited the house and entered the backyard. Neville loved the backyard. It was defiantly his favourite place on Uncle Albert's small property. The yard was large, far larger than what it appeared to be. It was easily larger than that of Mrs. Livingston who lived next door, or even that of Mr. Barnes who was far more well off than his dear Uncle Albert.

But Neville did not like it only because it was large, but also because it seemed as if no one saw what he did in there, except for Uncle Albert of course. Neville could not count the number of times, he was lounging around in the shade of the tree up the very back corner, and went unnoticed. Even Mrs. Livingston, the nosiest woman on the street could not see him there, despite that fact that he could see her.

It was because of this, and the fact that it was quite hot on this early August day, that Neville quickly retreated to the shade of his beloved Maple tree and spread out in the shade. Although he was sure he wouldn't be seen, he kept under the cover of a shrub, just in case.

A few minutes went by before Neville heard the telltale signs of his Uncle leaving for work. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Neville returned to his motionless respite.

His Uncle would be gone all day, for he was the owner of a large and prosperous company that manufactured cleaning products. At least he assumed it was cleaning products. Actually, Neville did not even know the name of his Uncle's company. Neville pondered this for a moment before he came up with: _Albert Stines' Warehouse of all things Boring...oh and Brooms. _Chuckling at his rather lame eleven-year-old sense of humour, Neville got to his feet and slowly made his way over to the shed to do the one task that was inevitable.

As he slowly opened the can of paint that was waiting for him, Neville again wondered what it was that his Uncle sold.

Rarely had he ever spoken about his work, and if he had, it was only to tell Neville to shut up and stop asking questions about his work. He has also never brought anyone home with him, such as a colleague, not while Neville was awake anyway. The only real evidence that Neville had concerning his Uncle's line of work was an image of Albert shoving a rather odd-looking broom and a few bottles of brightly coloured products in to the shed Neville was currently painting. He had long ago given up any futile attempts to break into the shed and have a poke around since that day, so he had pushed the obsession out of his mind. Until today, that is.

Exhausted and coated in several layers of white paint, Neville made his way into the kitchen and made himself some lunch. As always, he opted for the forgotten pieces of food that resided in his Uncle's fridge. He often chose things that had been there for a week at least, for if Uncle Albert found him taking food before dinner, even if dinner was hours away, it would not be pretty.

After a somewhat satisfying meal of old, dry meatloaf and very old potatoes, Neville headed upstairs to shower off.

Stripping down to his boxers, Neville studied himself in the mirror. He was of an average height for a normal boy his age, his body, though somewhat thinner than was would be considered normal, was average looking, and he did not possess any cool disfigurements or disabilities that would make him remotely interesting. Perhaps the only thing that made him the least bit unique was hidden much of the time beneath a fringe of dirty blonde hair. Pulling his fringe aside, Neville leant forward and studied his scar.

It sat a little to the right of the centre of his forehead, and was in the perfect shape of a lightning bolt. Running his fingers along the raised line, Neville sighed. He would give anything to know where the scar came from, but he was too afraid to ask. His Uncle was very strict about questions, especially those concerning Neville's parents, and to break the longstanding assumption he had that Neville was an incompetent fool would be a large waste of hard acting.

After a full half an hour of intense scrubbing, all of the paint was gone and Neville got dressed and headed downstairs. With little else to do but wait for his Uncle to return home, Neville decided to head down to the park.

Hitching up his too-long pants that once belonged to his uncle, Neville started down the path, stepped over the tiny gate and headed down Parsley Drive.

For at least ten minutes, Neville walked down the street, keeping to the pathway and keeping a watchful eye out for any passers by. Despite the fact that his Uncle was safely at work, Neville still felt as if someone was watching him, with disapproving eyes.

Finally, Neville made it to the park and breathed a sigh of relief. He had made it unnoticed and alone, just as he liked it. Making his way over to the swing set, Neville sat down and began to swing himself. It felt so lovely to have the wind in his face after such a long and hot day. He always wondered if the feeling he was experiencing now was any similar to the feeling of flying. He liked to think it was and for this reason, he let out a loud and cheerful laugh.

"Oi, Longbottom!" A voice called.

Immediately regretting his rash visit to the park, Neville stopped swinging and looked around for the voice.

"Over here Longbutt!" Another voice called.

Neville swallowed. He knew those voices and they were not the voices of friends.

Approaching him from every direction, five children, all ranging from the ages of 11-12, suddenly appeared. Three extremely large and mean boys, and two girls.

"Well, well. Look what we have here!" Bruce Barlow said smirking.

"A stick in a wig!" One of the girls, Leyla Springs, sneered.

"A worm with clothes on!" Charlie Banks, said, chortling stupidly.

"Come on guys, leave him alone!" The other girl, Sophia Edmonds, said.

Neville gaped at Sophia. He always knew she did not like they way they picked on him, but never had she said anything about it!

"Ugg...Sophia! You couldn't possibly feel sorry for this little stick-bug could you?" Louis Marsh, the leader of the group exclaimed with incredulity.

Immediately Sophia turned a magnificent shade of red and mumbled something along the lines of, "I didn't mean that..."

Neville, who had stopped swinging, looked at the girl, and feeling slightly reckless said, "I wouldn't want her pity anyway. Your all just a bunch of-"...THWACK!

What should have been a rather loud and offensive swear word coming from Neville's mouth was only to be replaced by an extremely large and hard fist.

In a mere matter of seconds Neville was sprawled out on the ground with all but one of the gang on top of him, pummelling almost every centimetre of his body. With Bruce and Charlie tackling his lower body and Leyla and Louis attacking his upper body, Neville's head was left free to toss from side to side as he screamed out with pain. Suddenly he noticed Sophia standing only a few meters away with one hand over her mouth and the other rummaging around in her pocket. Casting a pleading look to the brunette, Neville was shocked to see her turn on her heel and run straight out of the park, taking Neville's last hope with her.

With the one person, he would ever imagine helping him, now fleeing in the opposite direction, Neville retreated to the darkness of his mind, and finally unconsciousness took him.


End file.
